
D O N'T 

A PLAY 

In One Act 



By 
MARY MEEK ATKESON 



New York 

Orange Judd Publishing Company, Inc. 

1922 



D O N'T 

A PLAY 

In One Act 



By 

MARY MEEK ATKESON 



New York 
Orange Judd Publishing Company 

1922 






Copyright 1922, 

by 

Orange Judd Publishing Company- 



printed in the United States of America 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Mrs. Jane Harper, the capable and conscientious mother of 

Carrie and Bob. 
Carrie Harper, a girl of the "awkward age" 
Bob Harper, a hoy about twelve years old. 
Uncle John Gregory, Mrs. Harper's brother. A victim of 

neuritis, he has come from the city for rest and recuperation. 
Mrs. Doler, a neighbor who "enjoys bad health." 
Parson Olden, the village minister. 
Kirtley Brightwell, a returned soldier. 



DON'T 



SCENE. — The Harper farmhouse sitting room. 

It is blue Monday in the Harper farmhouse sitting room — one 
feels that as the curtain goes up, and one feels, too, that a gray 
rain drips round the house unceasingly, even though one can't 
see it through the windows. The room is large and would prob- 
ably he rather cheerful on a bright day, though there are a lot 
of useless bric-a-brac about, and gloomy-looking enlarged por- 
traits on the walls. These relics of her early hou,sekeeping days 
are carefully preserved by Mrs. Harper, partly because they re- 
mind her of her husband, who has been dead three years, partly 
because the care of them has become a habit with her. 

The widowed Mrs. Harper, however, seeins the most cheerful 
person in the room. One feels that she gets a real satisfaction 
out of her service for her home and children. She sits near the 
window with a big mending basket at her side, peering closely 
at her work in the gray light, as she sets a patch on a pair of 
trousers. One wonders why she doesn't light a lamp, until one 
notices the red rose-decorated monstrosity on the center table. 
It is evidently more for looks than illumination, and probably is 
another of the treasured wedding gifts. 

At the right in a carved morris chair sits Uncle John Gregory, 
his feet on a low stool and a shawl folded about his shoulders. 
He does not look much like an invalid, however, though his face 
is rather pale and has a tense expression, and he drums with 
nervous fingers upon the chair arm. The general sleekness of 
his appearance, the nose glasses, and his white hands show that 
he is lately from the city. Near the middle of the stage on a 
little old-fashioned settee is sprawled the ungainly figure of a 
girl about fourteen years of age. Her head is propped up on 
one arm of the settee and her long legs draped awkwardly over 
the other as she reads a book. Evidently the story is interesting 

5 



6 DON'T 

for her face has brightened and she reads on eagerly as her 
mother turns and notices her. 

Mrs. H. {horrified) : Carrie, how many times will I have to 
tell you not to sprawl round like that? A great girl like you! 

[The light goes out of the girl's face instantly, as she slams 
her feet to the floor and jerks herself to a sitting position, 
her face clouded with anger. \ 

Carrie: There it is again! Right in the midst of my story! 
{Mocking) "Carrie, don't; Carrie, don't!" What do I care 
where my legs are, I'd like to know, with Cynthia falling in love 
with a real live prince I 

{She flings the book aside petulantly, knocking a cheap, dec- 
orated vase off a table near her.] 

Mrs. H. (now really distressed): Oh, Carrie 1 And a vase 
I've had ever since your pa and I were married 1 

Carrie : Well, I don't care. Everything we've got you've had 
ever since pa and you were married. It was a sham, anyway. 
It wouldn't hold water for flowers or anything. (She glares at 
the loaded mantel.) I hate 'em, I tell you. Sham vases and 
sham clocks and sham lamps that won't give any light but just 
sit up there to be dusted. Some day I'm goin' to smash 'em, 
every one. 

Mrs. H. (evidently used to such outbursts, going on with her 
sezmng) : Carrie, don't make such a spectacle of yourself before 
your uncle. 

Carrie (now quite beside herself) : I don't care 

Mrs. H. (breaking in) : Listen to me. You go out in the 
kitchen and see what little brother's doing — and tell him not to. 

[Carrie stares at her speechlessly for a moment.] 

Carrie : Well, you are the limit I 

[She rushes out and slams the door behind her. Bob, in out- 
door clothes, enters from the other door.] 

Bob (boisterously) : Maw ! Maw 

Mrs. H. : Bob, don't leave your hat on in the house. Go and 
clean your feet — just look what you're doin' to the carpet. 

Bob (after his feet are cleaned) : Oh, maw, can't I go fishin' 
down under the bridge? It's a fine day for 'em to bite — jest a 
little drizzle. 

Mrs, H. : No, you can't. You'll get wet and take your death 
o* cold. 

Bob (whining) : But, maw, Bill an' Jim're goin*. I don't 
see how I'm any sicklier'n they are. 



DON'T 7 

Mrs. H. (sternly) : That's enough, Robert. Don't give me 
any of your sauce. 

Bob (beginning to cry) : That's always the way. I knowed 
you wouldn't let me — before I axed you 1 

[He goes out howling lustily.] 

[Mrs. H. glances at her brother, who has been an interested 
spectator of the scene, and sighs deeply.] 

Mrs. H. : Well, John, I'm afraid you'll not find much rest 
and quiet here in the country at this rate. To think that my 
children could be so rude and ill-bred — I can't understand it. 
I'm sure I try to do the right thing by them. If only Howard 
had lived — • — 

[She wipes her eyes on one corner of the garment she is patch- 
ing -] 

Uncle J. (ignoring her last remark) : Didn't you ever feel 
that way when you were their age? 

Mrs. H. (surprised) : No, I'm sure I never did. Why, you 
know, John, I never spoke to my mother in any such way. 

Uncle J. : Neither did I — on the surface — I guess I was 
afraid to, but down underneath I was all one wild revolt. (He 
loses himself a moment in his thoughts of the past.) It's been 
coming back to me since I've been sitting here with nothing else 
to do. I don't know but Carrie is just more honest than I was, 
when she speaks out frankly what she thinks — and maybe she is 
right 

Mrs. H. : I don't see how you'd call that right — when she 
doesn't mind a single word I say, or show the least respect 
for her elders. 

Uncle J. : It shows a vigor of character, anyway, and a power 
to think for herself. The fact is, Jane, you're too capable. 
You've done your children's thinking for them so long while 
they were babies that you can't give up now that you have a real 
force to reckon with. It's a different matter. You can't live 
your children's lives for them, you know, no matter how capable 
you are. 

Mrs. H. (sighing) : Well, I don't know, I am sure — (looking 
out at the window) — I do believe that's Lucy Doler coming. 
Now we're in for it. 

[A knock is heard at the door and Mrs. Doler enters shak- 
ing her umbrella and removing coat and rubbers. She is a 
slender, rather pretty woman, but with a petulant, dissatisfied 
expression on her face.] 



8 DON'T 

Mrs. H. {not very cordially) : Well, you are brave, Lucy, to 
come out in weather like this. 

Mrs. Doler: Oh, yes, ain't it awful, the weather we're hav- 
ing? I was just sayin' to Miz Perkins it ain't safe to stick your 
nose outside o' the door here lately without an umbrella over it. 
It's bad for us, too. I always notice a spell like this brings sick- 
ness and sufferin' after it. My rheumatiz is mighty bad, but, 
Jane, I felt I just had to come over when I heard your poor dear 
sick brother was here. {To Uncle J.) I'm so glad to meet 
you. (Uncle J. does not seem particularly overjoyed, however.) 
Zeb Smith, he was tellin' me about you. He said you had some- 
thin' awful the matter with you — somethin* new, he said. But 
I couldn't figger it out. I couldn't think o' nothin' but pneumonia 
and pneumatics — only that's somethin' to do with bicycles, ain't 
it? Tee-hee! Now, do tell me what it is, Mr. Gregory. 

Uncle J. {evidently being polite with difficulty) : Neuritis. 
Yes, it's new — it's quite the thing in the city now-a-days. Every- 
body's having it. 

Mrs. D. : Neuritis! Now, ain't that funny? And I never 
heard of it before. Poor man, it must be awful. Do tell me 
what are your symptoms. 

Uncle J. {pulling his shawl closer about him) : It hasn't 
any — or rather it's all symptoms — ^but nobody could understand 
who hasn't had it. 

Mrs. D. : Oh, ain't that awful! I know just how it feels. 
You look just like Lem Haskell. He set around that way for 
a long time and didn't get no better an' then he up and died 
suddent-like without a bit of warnin'. Seems like when a body 
gits down once the sooner he gits under the sod the better; he 
don't never seem to git rightly over it. 

Uncle J. {his eyes twinkling) : You certainly have a very 
cheerful disposition, Mrs. Doler. 

Mrs. D. {with satisfaction) : Oh, yes, you might say I'd been 
sanctified by trouble, I guess. I've had an awful time. I had 
such a misery in my side I was just clean tuckered out — and it 
kep' on an' on an' kep' on an' never got any better. An' then 
they took me to the hospital an' operated — I was under ether 
four hours — an' that just made me worse. Yes, I was that weak 
the doctor made me go to bed an* not wiggle my little finger — 
for, oh, months and months. 

Uncle J. {cheerfully) : And then you got better? 

Mrs. D. {dismally) : No, I just got worse and worse all the 



DON'T 9 

time. I just drag around and don't dast lift a finger for any- 
thing—my appetite's so bad an' I just have no strength at all. 
{She sighs. She has been looking about the room and now no- 
tices the broken vase.) Why, Jane, what can have happened? 

Mrs. H. : Oh, Carrie knocked that vase off and broke it just 
now. 

Mrs. D. : Oh, that's too bad. I know just how you feel about 
it, poor thing. That's the reason I can't never seem to use our 
parlor any more*— for fear somebody'll be careless. I can't bear 
to have a thing changed— so many of our dear ones have died 
and been carried out o' that very room. (She wipes her eyes.) 
But then everybody don't have the same feelin' for their relatives 
that I have. (She shakes her head mournfully.) 

Mrs. H. (evidently glad to change the subject) : I heard that 
Kirt Brightwell had got home from France. Have you seen 
him yet? 

Mrs. D. : Yes, I just met him down the road an' he said he'd 
stop in here on his way back. He looks pretty well, too, but 
law! they say they get things over there that don't show for a 
long time — ^an' then they're just awful! 

Uncle J. (eagerly) : He must be the soldier I saw going by 
a while ago. There's a sort of shine about his face — it does one 
good just to look at him. It's strange how our boys who left 
us for over there have come back with an American spirit to 
bear fruit in American life ; now, we shall really be the great 
nation they w'ere willing to die to save. 

[Mrs. Doler has lost interest and evidently doesn't know what 

he is talking' about.] 
Mrs. D. : Well, I must go — It's time to take my medicine and 
Doctor Sorly said, ''Don't miss it whatever you do." (Looking 
out at the window.) Ain't that the parson coming? Do come 
over to see me, Jane, dear. I just love to hear you talk. (Mrs. 
Harper sees her out.) 
Mrs. H. : Only she never gives me a chance! 
[Carrie enters.] 
Mrs. H. : Where's the baby? 

Carrie: Oh, he's asleep. I reckon you're glad — now he can't 
do anything he oughtn't to. 

[Parson Olden enters. He is a kindly old man with the best 
intentions in the world and very conscientious in his work 
among his people.] 
Mr. Olden : Good evening, Mrs. Harper — ^and Carrie. I 



10 DON'T 

heard 3^oiir brother had come and thought I'd stop in to meet 
him. Oh, pleased to meet you, Mr. Gregory. We're glad to 
have you with us, though we regret that your illness has been 
the cause of your visit. I hope you will soon be better in our 
quiet country here — if this rain would ever let up. Very un- 
usual weather for the time of year, very unusual. 

Mrs. H. : Yes, we have all been hoping for fair weather 
while he is here — the country is so much more interesting. 

Mr. O. {seating himself comfortably) : I was glad to hear, 
Mrs. Harper, that your children were not at the village dance 
last night. I wish other mothers were as careful of their chil- 
dren as you are. 

Mrs. H. : Yes, Carrie wanted to go but I didn't think it best. 

[She glances anxiously at Carrie, who has dropped into a 
chair near the minister and seems on the verge of an eX" 
plosion. Mr. O. observes this, too.] 

Mr. O. : You are right to see that such temptations be kept 
away from your children, Mrs. Harper. {Patting Carrie's should 
der soothingly.) Our little girls are so precious we cannot let 
them do things that will cause them sorrow in the future. 
(Benevolently.) That is why I've been preaching my sermons 
lately on the temptations of the young— to warn them before it 
is too late of some of the chief dangers of the period of youth. 

Carrie (exploding as she shakes off his hand and jumps up) : 
I know you do, and I hate it ! Don't smoke. Don't dance. Don't 
play cards. Don't swear. I don't want to know what to don't — 
I want to know what to do ! 

Mrs. H. (shocked beyond measure) : Carrie 1 How could 
you! 

Carrie: Well, you told me. Don't tell a lie. Then what am 
I to tell except the truth? I've lied often enough, goodness 
knows, sitting up there and pretendin' to be pious when I wasn't, 
when I wanted to stick dynamite under that church and blow 
it all to flinders I So there I Don't, don't, don't I [She stamps 
her foot angrily, Mrs, H. is speechless with mortification, and 
even the parson sees that it is no time for soothing sirup. Uncle 
John is looking on with amused interest. Fortunately just then 
Bob throws open the door boisterously and pulls in Kirt Bright- 
well, the returned soldier. With him comes a brighter atmos- 
phere. It may be that a few sunbeams are beginning to come 
out, or perhaps it is just the reflection of a happier presence in 
the room.] 



DON'T 11 

Bob (loudly) : What's the row? 

Mrs. H. : Why, Kirt ! [She rushes forward to kiss hint. The 
others shake hands delightedly and for a moment all try to talk 
at once.] 

Mr. O. : When did you come ? 

Mrs. H. : How are you I How well you're looking I 

Uncle J. : Glad to know you, indeed, I am. 

Carrie (delightedly) : My, your uniform is good-looking I 

Kirt (laughing) : One at a time, one at a time. I just got 
back this morning. Gee, it's good to be here and see all you 
folks again. I feel as if I'd been away fifty years. Honest, I do. 

Mrs. H. : Sit down. Carrie, tell Judy to tring some dough- 
nuts and cider. 

[Carrie goes to the door a moment to give the message, but 
returns promptly to Kirt's side in evident enthusiasm over 
this real doer of deeds.] 

Kirt (sitting down in- the chair they have all rushed to get 
for him) : This is just like old times, Mrs. Harper. It sure 
seems good to me. 

Bob (who always insists" on going to the bottom of a subject) : 
But say, what was the row when We came in? 

Mrs. H. : Row? Bob, such language! Why, Carrie was ex- 
cited over nothing as usual. Now, never mind, Bob. 

Mr. O. (who likes to shozv a Christian spirit) : Miss Carrie 
says she doesn't like my sermons. 

Bob (who, it seems, has a grievance of his own) : Gee, I 
got a lickin' when I got home last Sunday, too. 

Mrs. H. (sternly) : For misbehaving in church. You know 
you did, Bob. 

Bob: I didn't do nothin* but have a little box turtle in my 
pocket, an' it didn't do nothin'. It's slow — (zvith sudden boyish 
impudence) but gee, parson, it crawled up an' down the seat 
a dozen times while you didn't get anywhere! 

Mrs. H. (horrified): Robert! Mr. Olden, I can't seem to 
control my children at all any more. I don't know what to do 
with them. 

Kirt (who has been watching Carrie's face) : Why, what's 
the matter, sis? Can't you tell a fellow? 

Carrie (earnestly) : Everything's the matter, Kirt, Just be- 
cause I'm getting big, mother won't let me do a thing. It isn't 
nice to play with boys. It isn't ladylike to climb trees. She 
wants me to be cooped up in the house and 3'ard like a chicken, 



12 DON'T 

an' I say I won't! So there! What am I to do? I'm too big 
to play with dolls, and too little to gossip at the sewin' circle. 
And it's Don't, don't, don't! all day long. 

KiRT {with quick sympathy) : Well, that is hard luck, Carrie. 
I know how it goes. That's the way it used to be with me, Mrs. 
Harper. Mother was so careful of her only boy she made me miss 
half the fun of life. Why, I could hardly dress myself without her 
to lay out my clothes for me and tie my necktie. {He laughs 
heartily at the recollection.) And when I went to the table 
she'd fix up little extra things for me to eat, for fear I wouldn't 
be properly nourished. {They laugh.'] 

Uncle J. {joking) : You look rather sickly. 

Kirt: Don't I, though? But I tell you when I went over 
there it didn't take me long to learn a few things. When the 
time came to get, we got, and no questions asked. When they 
wanted us to go over the top, they said "Go 1" and over we went. 
We never stopped to think what might happen to us. 

Bob {enthusiastically) : Gee, I bet you didn't ! 

Kirt: And we slept in the wet cold and wallowed through 
the mire knee-deep in the trenches, and it didn't hurt us a bit. 
We went without anything to eat for twenty- four hours at a 
stretch — ^but {with a joyful recollection) maybe it didn't taste 
good when we did get it. Mother's extras were nothing to that. 
It makes me hungry right now to think of it. Those doughnuts 
are just in time, Carrie. 

[Carrie brings the cider and doughnuts from the door. They 
fill the glasses and pass them. Mr. O. tastes his cider rather 
doubtfully.] 

Kirt {teasing) : That's all right, parson. It's less than one 
per cent. 

Mr. O. {laughing) : How do you know? 

Kirt : Well, it is pretty hard to say Don't ! to Mother Nature 
when she gets to workin' up a little alcohol. That's a fact. 
[They laugh and eat.] 

Kirt {teasingly, as he holds up a doughnut) : This is the 
kind of doughn'ts we had in France, Carrie. {Significantly.) 
They had holes in them. 

Carrie {instantly ready to fight) : Well, there ain't any holes 
in ours. They're plumb solid — not a loophole anywhere. 

[They laugh. Carrie laughs with them, becoming really pretty 
as her face lights up with laughter, as Kirt seems to notice.] 

Kirt: That's a lot better, Carrie. Be a sunbeam. You know 



DON'T 13 

a gloomy face is catchin' — bad as measles. We used to say in 
camp that a fellow ought to be quarantined till he's cured of trou- 
ble — it's so terribly contagious. But then, so's happiness, for 
that matter. Why, you could just see those Yankee grins of 
ours begin to ripple over France the very minute we got there. 
Honest, you could. Faces, too, that hadn't smiled for four whole 
years. I tell you, it was great to see it. 

All {absorbed in his story) : It must have -been. 

Kirt: They had gone their limit, you see, and still the Ger- 
mans were pushing them back. When we got there — well — ^there 
was so m.uch to do nobody cared how — so long as we got it done. 

Uncle J. (with enthusiasm): And, my boy, you did it too! 

Kirt {modestly) : Well, every fellow tried to do his share, 
I guess, all the way through — though some of us hadn't done 
much for our country over here before we left it. It makes me 
tired to think what a lot of pep we wasted before the war, when 
it might have gone into making our country what it ought to be. 

Mr, O. (soothingly) : The ways of peace are quiet ways, you 
know. 

KiRT : Yes, too quiet. If we'd stir up a little row once in a 
while against the real forces of evil it'd be better for all of us. 

Uncle J. (imth energy) : You're right, there, my boy. We 
stay-at-homes are often the basest slackers in more ways than 
one. 

Kirt (aghast at this interpretation of what he has said) : I 
didn't mean that, Mr. Gregory, you know I didn't mean that! 
That's just like my blunderin' tongue! 

Carrie (her hand on Kirt's arm, as she defends him eagerly) : 
Why, Uncle John, you know he didn't mean it! 

Uncle J. (quietly) : Yes, I know he didn't, but it's true just 
the same. We're too ready to give in to little inhibitions — ^to 
little ailments — when we ought to stand up and fight our way 
out (teasingly) like little Carrie here. I got to thinking of it a 
while ago when Mrs. Doler was in 

All: Oh, Mrs. Doler! {They groan and laugh at the same 
time.] 

Carrie: I bet she'll be having neuritis herself before the 
week's out. 

Uncle J. : She's a good tonic, I guess, by her horrible ex- 
ample to save us from letting our spirits slide downhill. WeVe 
all too ready to quit when the doctor or somebody else says 
Don't! and give up to invalidism, when the fact is, there's so 



14 DON'T 

much to be done In the world it doesn't really matter if we do 
have a little pain somewhere. Now, here I've been — doomed to 
a chair — just because I've been cooped up in a stuffy office till I 
got all the oxygen out of my system. All I need is a chance 
to work as the Lord intended man to work — with his muscles. 
[He throws hack his shawl and feels his arm rather doubtfully.] 

Kirt: That's like Doctor Sorly (acting it out.) He comes 
in and looks at your tongue and feels your pulse — asks you what 
you've been doing and tells you not to. Do you smoke? Well, 
don't do it. Do you drink coffee? Don't do it. Have you been 
working? Then quit it — it's bad for you. [The others laugh.] 

Carrie: That's just like him. I hate Doctor Sorly! 

Bob : Oh, pshaw, sis, you hate so many things. 

Carrie (zvarmly) : I don't either. I just hate to be for- 
ever told not to do this and not to do that — and I hate it no 
matter who tells me. So, there ! 

Mrs. H. : Carrie, don't ■ (She stops in confusion, while 

the others laugh. She goes on apologetically.) I guess I do say 
that pretty often, though I never realized it before. It's a habit 
we mothers get, I fear. 

Uncle J. (with more vigor than he has shown yet) : I guess 
we've all had the habit and never realized it exactly. What we 
need is to join our forces and give these headstrong youngsters 
of ours so much to do they won't have time to be impudent. 
Isn't that it, parson? 

Mr. O. (hesitating for fear he may be agreeing to something 
too radical in its nature) : I'm beginning to think you are right, 
Mr. Gregory, 

Uncle J. : I've heard that the Indians, when their young folks 
get about the age of our Bob and Carrie, here, put them to work 
for the tribe — hard work, too — and to proving their worth as 
future leaders in war and peace, until all this wild eagerness to 
do something is turned in a good direction. Suppose we give 
up this old gospel of Don't! and try having them do the things 
that are worth while. A girl who can make doughnuts like these 
of Carrie's has a place in the neighborhood as big as any Sal- 
vation Army girl's in France— and (teasingly) her smiles are 
just as sweet. 

Kirt (zdth enthusiasrn) : You're right, there. 

[The others laugh and Carrie tries to hide her face, though 
it is easy to see that she is pleased.] 

Uncle J. : It's only too easy to see the dangers of doing 



DON'T IS 

things. When a boy goes swimming he may be drowned; if he 
crosses the road in these days he may get run down by an auto- 
mobile; if he drives a horse it may run away. Yet a boy must 
learn to swim if he is ever to save himself and others in an 
accident on the water — ^he can't always stay on one side of the 
road— and to learn to control himself he must teach that lesson 
of control to his driving horse. So it goes. Even though he 
shuts himself up in a little room, along may come a deadly germ 
and carry him off by disease. Life is a pretty dangerous business 
at its best, and sooner or later we all come to the great adven- 
ture. What does it matter when it comes if our hearts are right 
and our courage is high and we are busy doing the things that 
must be done? I guess that's about the way a soldier feels, 
isn't it, Ki'rt? 

KiRT {confused before the implication of any such heroism) : 
Well, I reckon so, though I wouldn't put it just like that. 

Mr. O. {still hoping to justify his sermons) : But you must 
admit, Mr. Gregory, there are grave dangers for the young— that 
they ought to be warned. 

Uncle J. : Yes, there are. And the warning should be given. 
But most of the things we worry over never come to pass. If 
a little fraction of one per cent of all the disasters people see 
ahead would really happen, this world would be in a pretty fix. 
Now, wouldn't it? 

Mr. O. {still doubtful) : Yes, I suppose it would. 

Uncle J.: Kirt, you're not too much worn out to help with 
some plans for the youngsters of the neighborhood, are you? 

Kirt : Why, of course not. I tried to do my part in the war, 
but it's no time to quit now — with the whole world to be made 
over into peace. 

Uncle J. : Right you are. This job is big enough for us all. 
I do believe you are converted, parson, and Jane, here, too. 

Mr. O. {zvho prides himself on being a good loser) : Yes, I 
am. {Jocosely.) I see the light. 

Uncle J.: Light! {Looking round at the windows through 
which the sunshine is now streaming.) Why, we've even talked 
the sunshine into the sky — and {teasing) into Carrie's face. 
Who would ever have thought it! [They laugh.] 

Kirt {reluctantly) : Well, I must go. 

Mrs. H. : Can't you stay to supper with us— ^and you, too, 
Mr. Olden? 



16 DON'T 

Kirt: No, not this time, Mrs. Harper. Mother will be ex- 
pecting me. 

Mr. O. : I promised Mrs. Smith I'd be down her way by 
suppertime. Thank you, Mrs. Harper. 

[The men have risen and are putting on coats and hats. Uncle 
John rises from his chair.] 

Uncle J. : Here, Bob, hand me my coat. I'll walk down a 
piece with them. 

Mrs. H. : Why, John ! The doctor said {catching herself just 
in time) You'll take your death of cold. 

Uncle J.: Oh, no, I won't. It's a little wet, that's all. I'm 
going to work in the field awhile to-morrow. Getting his feet 
wet never yet hurt a real man, did it, Kirt? 

Kirt (hesitating before this vigorous application of his ideas) : 
Maybe you'd better not go too far. 

Uncle J. (getting into his coat) : I'll be careful. It wouldn't 
do for me to get down and out with this new job on our hands. 
If we can't send all our boys and girls over to France to learn 
what Kirt has learned over there, we can at least put them to 
work for their country here at home. We'll start a real cam- 
paign of Americanism. Let's have a neighborhood plan, with 
plays and parties and athletic games — something to keep us all 
out of mischief every day in the week. Let's all get busy at our 
job of making a better America — ^and everybody say Let's do! 
instead of Don't! Now, what do you say, people? 

[During this speech they have grouped themselves. Mr. 
Olden's hand is on Kirt's shoulder. Carrie has timidly 
drawn near to Kirt with girlish hero worship in her eyes. 
Bob is reaching for the last doughnut on the plate.] 

All (with laughter and great enthusicLsm) : Yes, LET'S DO! 



CURTAIN 



LIBRPRY OF CONGRESS 



PLAYS FOR AA 




I 



018 603 367 



Between Two Lives 



By Charles William Burkett 



Eight Male, Five Female Characters. Price 50 cents. 

Just the thing for amateurs. An ideal play for gpranges, farmers' clubs, 
rural schools, agricultural schools and colleges and other organiza- 
tions in country districts. In three acts. Stage and costumes adapt- 
able to the simplest facilities. Play rich and full of the glory of 
country life. Full instructions for staging and costuming. 

The Cross Roads Meeting Hoiise 

By Mary Meek Atkeson 

Eleven Characters. In Three Acts. Price 35 cen^s. 

This splendid play presents the problem of the church in rural com- 
munities, pleasingly and sympathetically interpreting the Hfe and 
characteristics centering about the historic crossroads communities 
of Rural America. Appropriate for any type of country gathering. 
This great play truly makes two smiles grow where only one g^rew 
before. 



The Good Old Days 



By Mary Meek Atkeson 



A Rural Pageant. 50 to 200 Persons. Price 35 cents. 

This magnificent Pageant of Country Life is just the thing for field 
day meetings, patriotic celebrations. Fourth of July, and for other 
occasions of community co-operation. Fifty to two hundred people 
in the cast. May be performed in improvised enclosures but is 
best adapted to out-of-doors. Prologue and Interludes and three 
Episodes. Wonderfully impressive and instructive. 



Don't 



By Mary Meek Atkeson 



Six Characters. One Act. Price 25 cents. 

A play in one act, expressive of the new point of view of the Amer- 
ican spirit of "Let's Do" instead of "Let's Don't.'' Three male, 
three female characters. Time about twenty minutes. Scene a farm 
house sitting room. One of the best plays possible for use in an 
entertaining program of any kind. 



The Will 



By Mary Meek Atkeson 



Three Characters. Price 25 cents. 

A farce in one act. One male and two female characters.. For com- 
munity organizations. About twenty minutes. A fortune hunter is 
outwitted by two girls, one very clever and the other willing to 
forego an inheritance when she discovers that a fortune and not her- 
self is the object. Then the real will turns up. Very good for any 
kind of program. 



ORANGE JUDD PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. 
461-463 Fourth Ave. New York 



LIBRARY OF 

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018 603 



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LIBRARY OF CONnoceo 

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018 603 367 A # 



